


Anam Cara

by vintagelilacs



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Heaven has a Soulmate Department, M/M, Romantic Soulmates, Soul Bond, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-10 15:29:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19907998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintagelilacs/pseuds/vintagelilacs
Summary: “There is, apparently, an angel with a soulmate.”Crowley’s expression was one of poorly-veiled amusement. “Uh oh. Reckon your lot weren’t too happy ‘bout that. Soulmates are supposed to be strictly for mortals, aren’t they?”“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice was just on the side of testy. “The angel’s soulmate is a demon.”Crowley’s face morphed from hilarity to understanding and finally to horror in a matter of seconds. “Oh,” he said. His eyes met Aziraphale’s from behind his designer sunglasses. “Oh."





	Anam Cara

For the most part, Aziraphale liked to think he got on well with his coworkers and fellow ethereal subjects. He knew he was viewed as eccentric—his love for humans and especially for books only scratched the surface of his idiosyncrasies—but he was a being of grace and divinity and held a deep respect for the Almighty, just like every other resident of Heaven.

Sure, he didn’t meet up with anyone for nectar and ambrosia after work, and when he’d extended an invitation to attend the Philharmonic Orchestra, Gabriel and the others had politely declined, but while they might not be intimately close, that didn’t mean they didn’t have some form of rapport. Aziraphale, for all his oddities, was still respected. Who else had thwarted the powers of evil as often as he? Who else had foiled countless machinations of one of Hell’s foulest fiends? 

Admittedly it was all a ruse devised by him and Crowley, but the departments of Heaven and Hell were none the wiser.

Or so he thought. 

Lately, he wasn’t so sure.

The seed of doubt had been planted in his mind last Tuesday after their scheduled half-century meeting. He’d accidentally bumped into Archangel Chamuel, and when he’d apologized, instead of being met with polite assurances, the angel had made an affronted noise and shouldered past him. 

Considering Chamuel was the angel of love and relationships, and headed the Soulmate Department, his reaction was more than a trifle hurtful. 

Aziraphale pondered the angel’s brusque treatment of him. Had he inadvertently offended the fellow? He couldn’t imagine how. A week’s worth of time passed in the mortal world before he resolved to get to the bottom of the matter. Surely it was a misunderstanding. Chamuel was an exceptionally busy angel, assigned to record lists of soulmates and arrange for destined couples to meet and come together. It stood to reason he may have been tired and overworked. Aziraphale should see if he could assist him in any way. Perhaps he could help him with paperwork or perform some other kind gesture. 

Navigating through the pristine hallways of the Upstairs always took a considerable amount of time. Every new angel Aziraphale passed greeted him with cordiality and he returned the pleasantries as expected. As much as he liked being civil with his coworkers, it was also rather repetitive and tiring. 

When Aziraphale arrived outside the door to the Soulmate Department, he paused. He didn’t make a habit of visiting other angels at their respective departments. He might have accidentally overlooked some vital form of etiquette. Was an appointment necessary, or would they mind terribly if he simply dropped in? 

“Only one way to find out,” he murmured to himself. Aziraphale pushed open the door. The chamber was bustling with activity. Magically directed quills filled out paperwork without a hand to guide them, while the angels overseeing them tended to others tasks. Aziraphale passed by Jophiel, who was acting under the guise of a relationship counselor in order to impart advice to destined couples. Jophiel lounged in a leather-back chair, twirling a phone cord around one finger. 

No one stopped Aziraphale or challenged his right to be there, so he sauntered as casually as he could down the hallway. The door at the end was labelled ‘Chamuel: Archangel of Love’ in Enochian. 

Aziraphale knocked. When no response came, he tentatively pushed open the door. 

Chamuel had helped consolidate many great romances over the duration of humanity’s existence. Tristan and Isolde, Antony and Cleopatra, Hadrian and Antinous, and Sergius and Bacchus were only a few notable examples. His achievements were laudable, and for his part, Aziraphale had always admired Chamuel. This was a factor as to why he was so eager to remedy any grievances Chamuel may have with him. 

“Ah, hello,” Aziraphale greeted, trying not to let his uncertainty show. 

Chamuel looked up from the cabinet he was sorting through. He had a riot of copper curls that framed his heart-shaped face. In the past, back before there’d been so much paperwork involved in changing corporeal forms, he’d occupied a female body, and was said to have been the inspiration for Botticelli’s ‘The Birth of Venus.’

“Aziraphale,” Chamuel said flatly. 

Aziraphale instilled as much warmth into his smile as possible. “How are you?” 

“Fine.” Chamuel’s expression was as cold and hard as the slab the Ten Commandments had been carved on. Aziraphale would know. He’d been there when they were written. 

“Good. That’s good.” 

“Is there a purpose to your visit?” 

Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back. “Well, I suppose I wanted to apologize again for bumping into you earlier. I realize we haven’t caught up in some time.” 

“No offense intended, but I really am very busy.” 

Goodness, there was no need for such an abrasive tone! “Have I done something to offend you?” 

“Not yet.” 

“Not… not yet?” Aziraphale parroted. “Whatever do you mean?” 

Chamuel’s nostrils flared. “It’s what you are destined to do that brings shame upon all of us.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.” 

Chamuel held his gaze for a long moment, before beckoning him forwards with a tilt of his head. “As you’re well aware, I personally handle all prolific soulmate pairings.” 

Ah. He was definitely overworked. Angels were not exempt from the toll of emotional and mental strain. Aziraphale occasionally suffered from short temper and irritability himself. Crowley tended to describe him as “fussy” when such occasions arose. 

“This list here contains all the names of upcoming high-profile romances.” 

“That’s fascinating,” Aziraphale enthused. 

Chamuel, for whatever reason, did not share in his enthusiasm. “Read it,” he clipped out. 

Aziraphale accepted the proffered list and scanned the different names. He didn’t recognize any of them, although he was sure they were all very nice people. He didn’t quite understand what he was supposed to glean from the list, unless Chamuel was merely attempting to emphasize how overtaxed he was. “There certainly are a lot of different—” Aziraphale cut himself off. It was then that he saw it. _“No,”_ he breathed. It was absurd. Farcical. There hadn’t even been a word invented to encompass the sheer impossibility of it. “Is this your idea of a joke?” 

Chamuel’s glare deepened. “I never joke. Not when it comes to soulmates.” 

“But… but it’s wrong!” 

“The list is never wrong.” 

Aziraphale shook his head. Perhaps the list had never been wrong before, but it clearly was now. There was no other conceivable explanation for why the words _Aziraphale and Crowley_ were seared across the roll of gilded parchment. 

The paper fluttered to the ground. Aziraphale backed away, nausea contorting his stomach. He wondered if Chamuel would mind if he rested for a moment in his chair? Normally he wouldn’t impose, but his legs weren’t succeeding in keeping him upright at the moment. “Is there another Aziraphale and Crowley?” he asked, immediately feeling like an idiot. The answer was no. Of course not. Chamuel’s intense glare suddenly made perfect sense.

“Do you see now why I have lost respect for you?” 

Aziraphale’s mind reeled. Him and Crowley? How could that be possible? 

“Wait just one moment! Angels aren’t supposed to have soulmates.” Neither were demons, for that matter. In fact, demons weren’t supposed to be capable of even feeling love. 

Chamuel’s normally friendly mouth hooked into a sneer. “It is a double offense on your part.” 

“On my part? I haven’t done anything wrong!” He refused to be vilified for a deed he had not—and, more importantly, would not—commit. 

“It’s only a matter of time.” 

“No. I refuse.” 

Chamuel raised his eyebrows as if speaking something crucial but universally overlooked. “You cannot thwart the forces of love and destiny. It’s part of the Great Plan.” 

“Surely there must be some mistake. I mean really, an angel and a demon? It must be a miscalculation.”

Chamuel glowered, his eyes glowing like twin pieces of hellfire. Rather ironic, given he was an angel. “Were you always this disputatious, Aziraphale? I _never_ miscalculate.” 

Aziraphale shrunk back. Angels were entities of goodness, but they were also capable of being quite terrifying. Like now, for instance. “Of course not,” he agreed, employing the most conciliatory tone he was capable of. “It’s only… this can't be right. Perhaps your records have been tampered with? It could be a trick by an agent of Lucifer.”

“Are you insinuating I was incompetent enough to allow a minion of Hell into my personal office of the department I run?”

“No, no!” Oh, he was butchering this conversation. How could he convince Chamuel of how impossible this was? 

“If there’s nothing else, you must excuse me. Some of us have jobs to attend to.” 

“Surely not every fated pair ends up together.” Aziraphale attempted to measure his words, but they still came out desperate. “Some die before they meet their soulmate, correct? Or are kept apart by extenuating circumstances?” 

“Yes, well, not every department has a one hundred percent success rate.”

“Exactly my point! So it shouldn’t matter that we’re soulmates! I can ignore it. Or circumvent it.” It would hardly take a miracle to avoid Crowley, and even if it did, Aziraphale was more than capable of creating small miracles. 

Chamuel gave him a withering glare. “Do you even know what soulmates are?” 

What an inane question. Of course he knew. Everyone knew. It was a prevalent theme in romance fiction. Humans were obsessed with soulmates and ideals of true love and destiny. There was a reason William’s ‘Romeo and Juliet’ had been so popular. (And yes, Aziraphale was proud to say that he and William Shakespeare were on a first-name basis.)

“Soulmates,” Chamuel bit out, “possess an ongoing connection that the soul picks up again and again in various times and places and lifetimes. It is the purest and deepest connection two discrete beings are capable of sharing. They are fated to always find their way back to one another.”

Aziraphale gulped. That certainly sounded like… that is, he and Crowley had encountered each other quite frequently over the years. They’d made something of a habit of running into each other, and, occasionally, seeking the other out. Of course that still meant nothing. Friends did that sort of thing all the time. They’d known each other for six thousand years. Their options boiled down to either forming an unconventional friendship or resigning themselves to mortal enemies, and the latter sounded like much more work. Conflict simply wasn’t in Aziraphale’s nature. He desired a simple life, bringing peace and hope to humans, eating at good restaurants, and sipping hot cocoa to the comforts of a new book. He and Crowley had made a pact all those years ago not to step on the other’s wings. If they’d remained active enemies, it would have meant sacrificing considerable downtime. It didn’t seem worth it, not when there was a much more mutually beneficial option available. 

“Are you going to report me?” Aziraphale wondered. His stomach cramped even worse. He deeply regretted the sushi he’d had for lunch. 

“What good would that accomplish?” Chamuel shook his head. “There is no point delaying the inevitable.” 

“But—but it doesn’t have to be inevitable!” 

“You’ve already debased yourself, Aziraphale. No need to do so further.” 

His patience finally frayed. He straightened up, puffing out his chest as far as it would go. “I have done no such thing. In fact, the only one who has acted improperly is _you_. You cannot condemn someone for a deed they have not committed, even if their sin is preordained. I do not love Crowley and I never will; you can be sure of that.” 

Having said his piece, Aziraphale marched out of the office. He considered slamming the door behind him, but it seemed beneath him, and he also wouldn’t want to cause any permanent damage to the door hinge.  
  
  
  
Aziraphale set his sights on an antiquarian bookshop in Soho entitled _A.Z. Fell and Co._ Or, in other words, his earthly home. His hand shook as he unlocked the door to his bookshop. He felt off-kilter and more than a little unhinged. If this was the Almighty’s attempt at a joke, it simply wasn’t funny. Aziraphale’s brief stint as a stand-up comedian back in ninety-seven—eighteen ninety-seven, that is—had been more successful. And he’d been booed off the stage. One person in the crowd had even stooped to hurling spoiled fruit at him, and the stain had taken ages to remove, its existence only properly fading when Crowley performed a minor miracle of his own. 

Aziraphale grimaced. Why was it that no matter what route his thoughts traveled in, they always seemed to arrive at the topic of Crowley? Their relationship was complicated and convoluted and not at all easy to classify, but he could say with resolute certainty that they were not lovers. They tolerated each other, and enjoyed each other’s company, but it wasn’t _love_. And if six thousand years had passed without either one of them falling in love, then it would never happen. Such things simply didn’t. 

Aziraphale took in several deep, calming breaths. The familiar scent of old books was like a balm to his senses. He miracled up a steaming mug of cocoa with extra marshmallows. He could have gone through the motions of preparing it himself, but he’d had a trying day. He deserved a relaxing evening. 

Aziraphale was just about to settle down in a well-used armchair, when he caught sight of an unfamiliar tome set on the coffee table. 

There was a note taped to the front. In a sharp, messy scrawl that differed greatly from Aziraphale’s own copperplate penmanship were the words: _don’t thank me. I stole it so the nice gesture cancels out._

__

A second gander at the cover revealed it was an early edition of Oscar Wilde’s ‘The Happy Prince, and Other Tales’, but unlike Aziraphale’s first edition, this one was annotated by Lord Alfred Douglas. 

Aziraphale tucked the note into his pocket. By all accounts he should have called Crowley on the telephone and berated him for theft, but he was too overcome by the rush of fondness that surged through him. 

He hugged the book to his chest, his cheeks warming. “Thank you,” he whispered, only to be contrary. 

Aziraphale stroked a finger over the tattered and worn—or, as he was wont to call it, _well-loved_ —spine. He opened the book with the intent of perusing the first few pages when reality caught up with him, striking him with a force as powerful as the Great Flood. 

He was meant to be distancing himself from Crowley. He could not allow the situation to get out of hand. Crowley was a demon. Demons were evil tempters. Unlike humans, Aziraphale knew better and had no excuse for succumbing to their wiles. 

Even as he told himself this, a scintilla of doubt crept into his mind. Could all demons really be evil if Crowley had done this for him with no apparent ulterior motive? It was hardly the first kind act Crowley had performed, either. 

Aziraphale thought back to the grand opening of his bookshop, when Crowley had brought him celebratory chocolates. Of course, that could be construed as Crowley tempting him with gluttony, one of the Seven Deadly Sins. He would have liked to believe it had only been done out of kindness, but then, demons weren’t kind. 

Aziraphale sipped from his mug, but it seemed this was a problem not even hot cocoa would be able to solve. The best he could hope for was that Crowley’s attention would be diverted to enticing sin on some other far corner of the earth and leave him be for a few hundred years or so. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he really wanted that, but at the same time, he knew it would be for the best. 

  
  
  
  
Aziraphale should have known that when it came to the demands of destiny, prayer and wishful thinking were ineffectual. 

Not three days had passed when the bell affixed to the front door chimed.

“Oh, we’re closed!” Aziraphale called out from where he was hunched over the book Crowley had gifted him. He was almost certain he’d already locked up for the night, but he must have neglected to properly lock the door. 

__

“Even for me?” 

Aziraphale bristled at the familiar drawl. Crowley was all long, lean lines and sinuous movements. His hair was tousled as if he’d been running his hands through it, and his lips were curled in a lazy smile. 

“Crowley.” He adjusted the tartan collar of his shirt. The room suddenly felt much too warm. “What are you doing here?” 

“Oh, I was in the neighbourhood. Thought I’d stop by for a glass of wine since you’re always well-stocked. Perhaps a Chateau Lafitte, if you have any left.” 

Crowley was the last entity in the universe Aziraphale wanted to see right now, but his heart hadn’t gotten the memo. It gave a traitorous fluttering, speeding up the longer Crowley stared at him. “Er, yes. Yes, of course.” He fumbled for a bottle of wine and a pair of glasses. His hands were clammy and his nerves so jangled he nearly dropped the bottle. He didn’t want to face Crowley now, but it wasn’t in him to be rude and turn away a guest, albeit an uninvited one. 

Crowley tilted his head. “You alright, angel?” 

“Fine.” 

“You sure?” 

“Quite.” Aziraphale thrust a wine glass into Crowley’s waiting hand. He was shocked when instead of merely grasping the stem of the glass, Crowley’s fingers slid across his hand in a slow, thoughtless movement. It was almost a caress. 

Crowley sipped slowly, mulling the taste. “Surprised you haven’t finished it already,” he commented. At first Aziraphale thought he was referencing the wine, but then he realized Crowley’s nod was towards the book. 

“O-oh. I have actually. I’m re-reading it.” For the fifth time. There were certain lines that he’d had been especially attentive to. _I am the love that dare not speak its name_ was written in the margins of ‘The Nightingale and the Rose.’ It was poignant, especially knowing how the relationship between Wilde and Bosie had ended. 

“You like it, then.” 

“I do,” Aziraphale admitted. “But I wish you’d stop stealing books for me.” 

“Why? You appreciate them more than any mortal collector ever would. The past owner of that book didn’t even read the thing. Kept it under glass to show off to all his fancy dinner guests.” 

Hearing that made him feel a bit better about the stolen book. 

Crowley settled into an armchair. “Are you sure you’re alright? There’s something… off about you.” He gestured vaguely, some of the wine sloshing out of his glass. 

“Off? Whatever do you mean?” 

“You’re almost... oh what’s the word? _Inaccessible_.” 

“I'm afraid I don't know what you mean.”

“What are you doing on Saturday?” 

Aziraphale blinked at the nonsequitur. “Why do you ask?” 

“A new crêperie opened up. How would you fancy going together?” 

_Oh, crêpes_. That did sound delightful. Aziraphale deliberated for a moment. He didn’t want to say no, but he was an angel, and such temptations were beneath him. He had assured Chamuel he would terminate his relationship with Crowley, and he was resolved to keep his promise. “I’m afraid I’m terribly busy. Work,” he added. 

“What about next week?” 

__

“I… I wish I could.” 

Crowley drained the rest of his glass. “You haven’t touched your drink.” 

“Not in the mood, I suppose.” 

“Did that wanker Gabriel come by?” 

“He’s not...” Aziraphale lowered his voice. “Not a _wanker_.” 

“What did he say to you? I’ll stuff his wings up his—” 

“He hasn’t been by!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “None of this is about Gabriel.” 

“Then what is it?” 

He hardly knew where to begin. “You know that I like you,” Aziraphale said without coquetry. At least, that was what he intended. He hoped his voice wasn’t flirtatious. 

“I should hope so. I did get you a new book.” 

Aziraphale trained his gaze on Crowley’s snakeskin shoes, unable to meet his eyes. “I like you and I respect you, but I think we should take a break from each other.” 

“You’re breaking up with me?” Crowley grinned, but there was a strained quality to it. 

“No! No, don’t be ridiculous. We weren’t courting each other in the first place.” 

“‘Courting,’” Crowley echoed. “You realize the term for it now is ‘dating’, don’t you?” 

“Yes, of course.” Aziraphale blushed. When had the term ‘courting’ gone out of fashion, again? 

“So, what spurred this?" Crowley asked with forced nonchalance. "I thought you were satisfied with our arrangement.” 

He swallowed. “I was.”

“Have I done something wrong?” 

“No. No, you’ve been lovely.” That was the worst part of all this. 

"Then for God’s—for Satan’s—for someone’s sake, what’s the matter?” 

Aziraphale owed Crowley the truth. He had a right to know. If their positions were reversed, Aziraphale would have liked to be informed. He sucked in a fortifying breath, before plucking his glass from the counter and gulping the wine down. Liquid courage had to be good for something. 

“I visited Archangel Chamuel today. There is, apparently, an angel with a soulmate.” 

Crowley’s expression was one of poorly veiled amusement. “Uh oh. Reckon your lot weren’t too happy ‘bout that. Soulmates are supposed to be strictly for mortals, aren’t they?” 

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice was just on the side of testy. “The angel’s soulmate is a demon.”

Crowley’s face morphed from hilarity to understanding and finally to horror in a matter of seconds. “Oh,” he said. His eyes met Aziraphale’s. “ _Oh._ ” 

“Indeed.” 

“It’s a mistake,” Crowley decided. “Someone’s idea of a lark.”

Aziraphale shook his head miserably. “I saw the list with my own eyes. Chamuel was quite adamant that you and me are… well, that we’re fated. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

He anticipated laughter. It was a ludicrous situation, and yet Crowley wasn’t laughing. Aziraphale didn’t understand why not. All the warmth and mirth drained from Crowley’s smile. His expression managed to be intense, even with his eyes obscured behind his sunglasses. 

Crowley rose to his feet. He took a deliberate step forward. Aziraphale instinctively took one back. And so it repeated, until he was trapped against the wall with no escape route in sight. What was Crowley playing at? Aziraphale wanted to ask, but it was as if the snake-demon had fallen into a trance. 

“ _Soulmatesss,_ ” Crowley hissed. “What other ideas have they filled your head with? Did they tell you that I, the original tempter in the Garden of Eden, am tempted by _you_? That I crave your company above all others?” 

“He didn’t use those words, exactly—” 

“Did they tell you there are times when I imagine abandoning this little planet and whisking you away with me to another galaxy where I’ll have you all to myself?” 

__He was breathless all of a sudden. “No. Of course not.”_ _

__Crowley gave him a long assessing stare. “Really? Because I hear Alpha Centauri is nice this time of year.”_ _

__Joking. He was joking. It’s what demons did. They made jokes at the expense of others. He was trying to make Aziraphale look like a fool. And he’d succeeded._ _

__Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Let’s not prevaricate. The crux of the matter is that for some inexplicable reason you and I are on the list and we need to prevent it from happening.”_ _

__Crowley hummed. “Why do we?”_ _

__“Shouldn’t that be obvious? We’re mutually incompatible!” If they ever tried anything physical, they’d probably explode! Not that Aziraphale even wanted to be physically intimate with Crowley. The demon’s corporeal form was… not unappealing, and he could do interesting things with his tongue, but Aziraphale had never so much as entertained the idea! Truly, he hadn’t! And dreams didn’t count. It wasn’t as if he could control what his subconscious concocted._ _

__“How do you figure that? We both appreciate the pleasures of the mortal world. We understand that good and evil isn’t always clear-cut. We understand _each other_. I’d say that makes us pretty damn compatible.”_ _

__Why was Crowley pressing the issue? “Be reasonable, my dear. No one would accept an angel and a demon as soulmates. The very existence of our relationship would be an affront to Heaven and Hell.”_ _

__“Because you’ve always been such a stickler for the rules,” Crowley said snidely._ _

__“I am where it counts!”_ _

__“And who decides where it counts? We’re both of angel-stock, so why’s it matter?”_ _

__Aziraphale struggled for words, chasing after threads of thought that danced away from him. “How do you suppose the rest of Heaven and Hell would react?” He said finally. “I’d be a disgrace.”_ _

__“That’s all you care about? Your reputation?” Usually Aziraphale loved Crowley’s laugh, but at the moment, it was marbled with irritation, and altogether not a very pleasant sound. “You’re the angel who was willing to jeopardize his reputation by giving away a flaming sword, but suddenly being held in high esteem is all that matters to you?”_ _

__“You’re being unfair.”_ _

__Crowley removed his sunglasses, revealing yellow, reptilian eyes and slitted vertical pupils. They bore into him, stripping past the fragile veneer still clinging in place. Aziraphale had the inexorable feeling that Crowley was peering into his soul. “Tell me you want me to leave. Tell me you never want to see me again.”_ _

__Aziraphale’s breath shuddered out of him. His lungs seemed to collapse in on themselves. Now that he knew what they were destined to become, how could he ever be satisfied with mere acquaintanceship? It was too great a risk. He had to curtail his feelings. Feelings which he did not have. Because that would be ridiculous.__

 _ _“It’s not about what I want. We shouldn’t— _can’t_ see each other. Not unless you can assure me there’s no chance of either us becoming involved.” _ _

__“You’re being awfully presumptuous. I have plenty of other people to fraternize with. What makes you think I’d want you?”_ _

__“I would never presume under normal circumstances, but I saw the list with my own eyes. There’s no denying that there is a risk present.”_ _

__“You’re really going to cut me off because of a piece of paper?”_ _

__“It’s more than a piece of paper, Crowley! You know that. I can’t see you anymore.”_ _

Crowley tilted his head. “It disgusts you that much, does it? The thought of sullying yourself with a demon?” 

__Aziraphale’s speech failed him. That wasn’t it at all. His emotional state was in turmoil, but disgust wasn’t an emotion Crowley had ever evoked in him. Aziraphale was confused and afraid, and, above all, frustrated. Both with himself and with Crowley. And certainly with Chamuel for bringing all of this to light. And, even though he would never admit it, even with the Almighty.__

__“I see.” Crowley's expression shuttered. He slid his sunglasses back in place before turning sharply on his heel._ _

__“Crowley?” A frisson of panic wove through him. This wasn't how he'd wanted the conversation to go, and certainly not how he'd wanted it to end._ _

__"Have a nice life, angel.”_ _

__Aziraphale watched Crowley saunter towards the door. He yanked it open, and shut it with a slam. The tightness in Aziraphale’s throat was matched only by the stricture in his chest. It had been his decision to end their association, so why did he feel so awful?__  
  
  
  
  
Months trickled by. London’s weather was relentlessly sunny, but Aziraphale felt as if a permanent, invisible storm cloud hovered over him. It was the first time in six thousand years that he’d felt properly lonely. He buried himself in his books and devoted himself wholeheartedly to his work as an angel. He helped repair minor squabbles between friends and family, gave hope to those who were struggling, and slipped five-hundred quid into a homeless man’s backpack. He kept busy and distracted, but it was when he encountered an old woman weeping at the cemetery that he was no longer able to distance himself from thoughts of Crowley. 

__"Are you alright, my dear?" Aziraphale asked._ _

It turned out that the woman—Eleanor—had gone to the cemetery to visit her husband's grave, but her memory was failing, and she couldn't remember where he was buried. Grief and frustration both pricked at her eyes. Aziraphale consoled her, and with a bit of divine intervention, helped her locate the grave site. 

__“It’s never enough time,” Eleanor murmured. “You have all these years together, but once he’s gone, you’d give anything for just five more minutes together.”_ _

__Aziraphale patted her on the arm awkwardly. “I’m truly sorry for your loss. Your husband sounds like he was a wonderful man.”_ _

__“Oh, he was," she sniffled, "But so stubborn. We’d fight all the time.”__

 _ _She regaled him with stories of their times together, and he couldn't help drawing comparisons to his own past with Crowley. She started to describe her wedding night, but only made it halfway through before burying her face in Aziraphale’s shoulder. She left the fabric damp and smelling of lavender perfume. “I miss him. I even miss the fighting and the bickering.”_ _

__Aziraphale knew the feeling all too well. He missed being challenged by Crowley, missed their banter and their bickering. He missed the sight of the demon’s designer clothes and the marble cut of his cheekbones and his roguish smile. He even missed Crowley’s bentley and his reckless driving._ _

__“Do you have someone?” Eleanor asked._ _

__He hesitated too long. “No, I'm afraid I don’t.”_ _

__“When you find him, don’t let him go.”_ _

__Most people, upon meeting him, came to the conclusion that Aziraphale was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide, and it seemed even an ninety-something woman with poor vision had observed as much. Though it wasn’t technically accurate. He was a celestial being and mortal labels didn’t really apply._ _

__Eleanor laid a bundle of flowers down on her husband’s grave, and wiped her tear tracks with an age-mottled hand. Aziraphale escorted her back and hailed her a cab. She thanked him for being a listening ear and a comforting shoulder. He was happy to have helped her. He was happier still to attenuate some of her grief with a minor miracle, and ensure that her husband would visit her in her dreams that night._ _

___Aziraphale was doing everything a proper angel would do, and yet, somehow, the work wasn’t as satisfying as it used to be. There was something missing in his life, and he knew exactly what it was._ Aziraphale cast his gaze to the heavens. _Please. Send me a small sign._ He needed to know he’d done the right thing. Sometimes it was difficult to discern if he’d done the good thing or the bad. The delineation between good and evil was a murky line at the best of times, and it was imperceptible to him now.  
  
  
  
Aziraphale's sign arrived that night. Or, more accurately, that morning. Just past four am. 

__Aziraphale fumbled for the landline. He required less sleep than the average human, but proper rest was necessary while he occupied a corporeal form. He certainly wasn’t at his most polite when he was sleep deprived._ _

____

____

__“Hello?” Aziraphale rasped. His voice had been scraped rough by sleep._ _

__There was breathing on the other end, but it was shallow and muffled._ _

__“Is that you Crowley?” Aziraphale asked softly, not sure what he wanted the answer to be._ _

__“Why’s it so bad?”_ _

__Oh dear. There was a particular rough quality to Crowley’s voice that made Aziraphale wonder if he’d been crying. Surely that wasn’t accurate._ _

_“Is it just ‘cause I‘m a demon? Awfully preju- _prejudiced_ of you.” _

__“Crowley, are you drunk?” It took considerable alcohol for their kind to reach such a level of intoxication, but they could easily un-intoxicate themselves if they so wished. It appeared Crowley, for whatever reason, did not._ _

__“Mm. My liver’s probably disappointed in me. Just like you are.”_ _

__“I’m not disappointed in you.” Crowley had done nothing wrong._ _

__“But you’re disappointed that it’s me you’re destined for, eh? I’m just not good ‘nuff for the great _Asssiraphale_.” Crowley drew his name out with a hiss that sent a not unpleasant shiver down his spine. _ _

__“That’s not true. That’s just not true and you know it.”_ _

__“Then why?”_ _

__“You know why,” he said, exasperated. “Need I remind you that you are a demon and I am an angel?”_ _

__“That’s never mattered before. We’ve always been different from the rest of ‘em.”_ _

__He couldn’t deny that. He and Crowley both had a tendency to straddle the line between good and evil, and after everything they’d been through over the years, he knew Crowley wasn’t wholly evil. “Yes. Yes, I know,” he conceded. “But this is going too far.”_ _

__“Why?”_ _

__“Because I’m afraid!” he burst out. His eyes clenched shut. What a fool he was for letting that slip._ _

__“Afraid of me?” Crowley asked in a small voice._ _

__“No.”_ _

__“Afraid of... of your feelings for me?”_ _

__His throat tightened up, constricting and crushing the words. That was precisely what he was afraid of. Distance and separation were supposed to cure him of his burgeoning feelings, but he suspected they were only prolonging the inevitable._ _

__Stupid Chamuel. Stupid soulmates. Who had invented them in the first place? Ah, right. God, probably._ _

__Aziraphale would never question the Almighty’s motives—faith was meant to be blind, after all, but he did wish they were was a bit more, well, _effable_. _ _

__He ran through a hundred different permutations of a future with Crowley in his mind. It was unnatural, perverse, irredeemable. And yet the thought of being apart for the rest of their days sent a tremor of seismic proportions through him. There was no formal rule against an angel loving a demon, but surely it was one of those unspoken laws. He couldn’t allow himself to be wounded by the dart of love, but perhaps it was already too late for that. The possibility of them becoming lovers hung over Aziraphale’s head like a piece of tempting fruit._ _

__“Aziraphale? Are you still there?”_ _

__Aziraphale closed his eyes. He hung up the phone. Wonderful invention, the telephone. But some conversations needed to be had in person.__  
  
  
  
The morning sky was rose-gold by the time Aziraphale arrived outside Crowley’s flat. He paced outside the door for several moments, wearing out the carpet before forcing himself to rap sharply on the door. 

__Crowley opened it promptly. “Have you any idea what time it is—” his voice broke off when he ascertained it was Aziraphale. They assessed each other for a moment. Crowley’s clothes were rumpled, and his hair disheveled. He was in a sorry state indeed, but at least it seemed he’d sobered up since their phone call._ _

__Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Um. Right. There’s something I need to say. Several things, actually. Could I…” he gestured toward the flat. “Would it be a terrible imposition?”_ _

__Crowley’s expression was hard, and he had that rare glint in his eyes, like he was about to say something cutting. He opened his mouth, then closed it with a clack. After several more seconds he stepped aside to grant Aziraphale entry._ _

__Crowley’s flat was modish, with sleek furniture and elegant decor that made it seem like the kind of lodgings one would find in a catalogue. A profusion of lush and verdant plants filled the room, and their leaves seemed to lean in to Aziraphale, reaching towards him as if he were a source of sunlight.__

 _ _Aziraphale had rehearsed what he was going to say on the way over, but whatever he’d prepared seemed inadequate now. “Crowley, I—I don’t know what to do. I feel like I’m missing a limb. It’s strange because I’ve gone longer periods of time without seeing you, but these past few months I’ve been aware of little else besides your absence.”_ _

__“I haven’t been absent,” he countered. “You pushed me away.”_ _

__“I know. I didn’t want to. I thought it would be best, that I was acting in both our best interests.”_ _

__“And now? Have you reached a different conclusion?”_ _

__“Yes." He knotted his fingers together and clenched them to prevent them from shaking. "I realized that pushing you away wasn’t a preemptive measure, and that I can’t prevent myself from falling in love with you, because I already have." He had trouble forcing oxygen into his lungs, which was odd given the number of plants in the room. “I kept turning it over and over in my mind and I realized the reason seeing our names on the list of soulmates bothered me is because I wanted it to be true. I was tempted and enthralled by the idea and I thought, surely this is one-sided. You’re tempting me the way you tempted Eve in the garden. I was afraid it was all a game to you, that I was merely your next target to tempt.”_ _

__Crowley opened his mouth to argue, but Aziraphale pressed on._ _

__“But then I asked you to leave me be, and you acquiesced. You didn’t come back to manipulate me or tempt me. And then I got your phone call and I realized this wasn’t what I wanted at all. I want you.” He exhaled shakily. “Even if loving you means that I’ll fall.”_ _

__Crowley’s Adam’s apple bobbed heavily. “Oh, angel. I won’t let you fall.”_ _

__He held out his hand, and Aziraphale took it._ _

__“The only falling you’ll be doing is for me,” he added._ _

__Aziraphale laughed wetly. “I’ve already fallen for you, remember. In hindsight, I suspect I’ve been in love with you for centuries.”_ _

__“Only centuries? Took you that long, did it?”_ _

__Aziraphale huffed. “It couldn’t be helped. I was having a moral crisis.”_ _

__“Well, one of us has to be slower on the uptake, I suppose.” Crowley’s thumb stroked gently over Aziraphale’s hand. “Does this mean we’ve officially become soulmates?”_ _

__“I think we already were. Perhaps we always have been.” Aziraphale lifted his free hand to Crowley’s sunglasses and gently removed them. “You’re more than just a romantic partner to me, Crowley. You must be upset with me, given how I’ve treated you, but you must know I’ll take you in whatever capacity you’ll choose to have me. Lover, sexual partner, friend—whatever you wish. You... you are my _anam cara._ ” He’d stumbled upon the phrase once in a book. It was a term to describe kindred spirits who had known and loved one another before time itself began. He'd developed a distaste for the word 'soulmate', but anam cara seemed to suit them. They were soul friends sharing the deepest connection two beings could have. _ _

__Crowley rolled his eyes, but his endeared expression belied his show of annoyance. “Soulmates, anam cara. Your lot are _so_ obsessed with labels. But call me whatever you like. As long as I can do this.” And with that, he tugged on the lapels of Aziraphale’s coat and reeled him in for a long, lingering kiss. _ _

__While he was not situated in Heaven, or ensconced in his cozy bookshop, Aziraphale felt for possibly the first time in his long existence that he was _home_._ _

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is greatly appreciated.


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